The Case of the Marquess' Marriage
by Puffy Poo
Summary: Enola Holmes has successfully established herself as the world's first and only Professional Perditorian, yet, still unmarried at the age of twenty-four, she cannot escape the stigma of her spinsterhood. After losing her closest friend to matrimony, the woman who walks alone is happy to distract herself with searching for the would-be bride of a man she hasn't seen in a decade.
1. Preface

July, 1898

"The mystery of the dancing men was extraordinarily simple, in the end. I regret only that I did not solve it sooner. Mr. Cubitt's death, as well as the unfortunate condition in which his wife now lingers, might have been prevented."

The lines in the lean man's face seem deeper for the moment as he leans against the fireplace, gazing into the depths of the fire. Though, through the memoirs of his friend Doctor Watson, his stoicism has become as famous among polite society as his name, Sherlock Holmes is not entirely devoid of emotion. His expression has changed too subtly for most to notice, but the lady seated near him stares at his face unblinkingly for a moment before emerging from her armchair and pacing across the room. As she passes the great detective, their eyes meet and a reassuring look passes between the siblings. An almost smile crosses Sherlock Holmes' face and he straightens his stance.

"Mrs. Cubitt's prognosis is very hopeful," the stouter, mustached biographer says from his armchair, where he sits with his feet propped up and a glass of port in his hand. "Though it will take time, I'm almost certain she'll recover fully within a matter of months."

"From the head-wound, perhaps," the young woman replies, not looking at either of the men in the room, her eyes fixed on the shiny tip of Doctor Watson's boot. "There are other injuries less visible to the eye that will take far longer to heal. The emotional trauma of losing her husband, and that partly due to her own reluctance to inform him about the characters of her past…" She is silent for a moment before continuing, "I think that losing one so dear to her alone would justify any amount of emotional damage she could claim."

"What is this? My sister, the suffragist, waxing romantic? Perhaps you find the idea of marriage more desirable than you once did?" Sherlock teases gently, and the lady's cheeks flush with warm color.

"Of course not," she snaps and Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Steadying herself, she continues, more calmly, "One need not desire marriage to appreciate it. When both participants are willing, able and happy to spend a lifetime in each other's presence, by all means, it is to be celebrated. I meant only that, if this poor woman loved her husband as much as she seems to have done, then I pity her for the heartbreak she will have to live with when she wakes up to a world without him."

Sherlock Holmes, who has examined his much younger sister's face with curiosity throughout this speech, appears to have found something of great interest in her eyes. With a thoughtful expression, he removes his pipe from between his teeth and strikes a match to relight it, glancing occasionally at the young woman's face.

All too aware of this scrutiny, the woman shoots an obvious look at the clock before casually announcing her intention to leave the gentlemen for the night.

"Thank you for dinner and for telling me about this latest case, my dear brother," she says as she dons her coat and gloves, her hat already firmly attached to her head. "I'll see you again next week, perhaps, for tea? Yes? Good. Good evening Sherlock, good evening Doctor Watson," she says firmly as she shows herself out of the room.

Emerging onto the street, she sees the light is already beginning to fade, darkened by the smoke and shadows of London. Face still burning, the young woman hails a cab. As 221B Baker Street is whisked out of sight behind her, she settles back in her seat with a sigh and draws a letter from one of a number of pockets on her person. She has already read it enough to have all four pages of it memorized, but as her eyes come to rest on a passage on the last page, the meaning of it hits her anew.

"You have expressed your ideas on this subject often enough to me and you know that I entirely agreed with them once, but that was before I met my dear Diederich. It is obvious he cares for me and I have never been so certain I loved anyone than I am that I love him. Please accept my invitation. I cannot imagine this happiest of days without my dearest friend at my side. And I will admit the irony of being delivered from one, odious, marriage and into another, highly desirable, union by the same hands appeals to me greatly. My dear Enola, please reply as soon as possible and reassure me that you will come. I will not be at peace over the matter until I have received your affirmative answer.

"I am yours in friendship and spirit, etc."

Enola Holmes lets out a sigh through her long nose and tucks the letter away once more, staring out the cab window at the passing streets. She sent the awaited confirmation within an hour of receiving the letter, unable as ever to refuse anything to its author.

But now, on the eve of the ceremony, despite spending the entire six months of her friend's engagement preparing herself for the event, Enola Holmes, adventuress, spinster and the world's only Professional Perditorian, cannot help but wish, at least briefly, that some pressing case would steal her away from London and render her promise to attend Lady Cecily Alistair's wedding ineffectual.

Enola shakes her head and stiffens her spine as she alights upon the pavement before her lodgings at the professional woman's club. Her wish is vain. Cecily has asked it of her. And for those she loves, and those who love her in return, the woman who walks alone would pass through fire – or even attend a wedding ceremony – to appease them.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter

The

First

Having suffered a most trying day, I was in a somewhat less than agreeable frame of mind when I arrived at my brother's home in order to accompany him to the opera.

"Sherlock," I greeted him shortly as he clambered into the cab with me. Settling into his seat opposite me, he raised a sharp eyebrow, but didn't comment. As the cab jolted into motion, I could almost see the famed mechanics of his mind at work, dissecting the reason for my ill humour. I watched his eyes take in the nuances of my appearance.

First, my expression, which I had forced into what would have been a blank look of calm to the everyday observer, but Sherlock would of course see the every line around my mouth, every twitch of my brow: the faint signs of too little sleep and recent aggravation.

Next, my wardrobe: my dull mud-brown hair done up in the full, frothy 'Gibson Girl' style, topped by a hat so covered in feathers I might as easily have placed a pigeon on my head and allowed the creature to keep its plumage; my person clad in a dress of the palest pink satin, trimmed with creamy lace and ribbons, the style of which was hardly extravagant for a squire's daughter, though perhaps a little too fashionable for the evening's agenda. I could almost see the thought, "Compensating for something?" cross my dear detective brother's eyes, and I had to use every ounce of self control I possess to keep from fidgeting under the weight of that deduction.

Finally, he considered the way I held my hands – clenched in my lap, bony knuckles protruding more than usual under the pressure – and then looked up into my eyes. "Difficulties with a case, Enola?"

Receiving his confirmation from my frown, he leaned back into the seat with his hands folded over his chest, a mixture of smugness and brotherly sympathy overtaking his features. I remained silent, glowering, refusing to address his obvious invitation to explain the nature of the problem.

Raising his eyes to the ceiling of the cab in a look that said, "Lord give me patience," as clearly as if he'd spoken aloud, Sherlock's features softened into an almost-smile and he shook his head ruefully.

No doubt he believed me to be keeping my silence because I had run afoul of a case I had not yet been able to solve and, with Holmesian stubbornness, I did not want to ask advice, preferring to unravel it myself. He could not have been more distant from the truth. Though his original deduction that my foul mood had resulted from my life's calling as the world's Only Scientific Perditorian, it was not due to a lack of expertise in finding what is lost, but rather due to my proficiency at it.

That and the rudeness of a woman who should not have sought the help of a Professional Seeker of Lost People and Things if only to disbelieve that scientific personage's findings based off of her own opinion of that personage's choice to remain unmarried at the mere age of twenty four.

I turned to scowl out the window at the thought, wishing that I had had the time after I had met with that unpleasant woman to sketch out my feelings before it had been necessary to dress for the opera. I could imagine the drawing in my head, the exaggerated features taking shape beneath my mental hand: I could see the drooping blood-hound eyes, blood shot from worry and wide with anger; the mouth a gaping frown like that of a fish as she accused me of lying about her husband's location. And this I would, of course, do because, as an unmarried woman who engaged in 'men's work' of her own will, it was obviously my dearest wish to see all marriages end immediately and by my own hand. _Obviously_.

I glanced down at my dress, shimmering in the lamplight filtering through the cab windows. The deduction I had assumed Sherlock had made – that I was over compensating for something – was true. I had chosen that dress – quite apart from the particular enjoyment wearing truly lovely clothing brings me as a person of distinctly unlovely features, with my protuberant nose and chin and my long body padded by scandalously little curvature – purely out of spleen. As the farthest thing in my closet from the tweeds of a spinster, I had chosen that spectacular specimen of fashion in order to prove to the world, even if I could not prove to the vicious, spurned woman of the afternoon, that I was not – that I didn't –

My thoughts stopped short. Show the world what? That I wasn't the bitter, man-hating harridan that I'd been accused of being earlier that day? That felt true enough, but how was a pretty dress supposed to prove that? Bitter women can and do wear silks and satins as easily as any other woman. Perhaps I meant to prove that my status as an unmarried woman was not one forced upon me by my unfortunate appearance, but one I had chosen? And so I wore that most fetching dress, without the enhancements I had used to disguise myself over the years, in order to show that, even with my remarkably plain face, I was not so unattractive as to be incapable of finding a mate, but rather that I didn't care to?

Shaking my head as if hoping to knock loose some sense in my thoughts, I was surprised to find as the cab slowed and we joined a line of vehicles approaching the opera house, that my confused musings had taken us from Baker Street to our destination.

When finally our cab pulled up to the curb, Sherlock alighted first, then turned and assisted my descent. I tried not to show my pleasure when, entering the house and removing my dark velvet cloak, there was a slight change in the noise level around me as the crowd noticed my dress. An attendant took the cloak away, and I, feeling very exposed under the many pairs of eyes, smoothed an imaginary rumple out of the skirt. After the crowd's initial interest had passed, I turned and smiled at Sherlock, tucking my arm into his and allowing him to lead me to our box. His features remained impassive, but I could read the amusement in his eyes.

Once we had taken our seats, Sherlock settled back into his seat to wait. My own person being far too full of uncomfortable energy leftover from my experiences of the day, sat bolt upright, staring around the theatre and trying my hardest to keep my feet from bouncing about on the floor beneath my dress. Almost immediately, I noticed a young woman seated in the box next door, as it were, to ours. My interest was double in nature. First, in the dozen or so times Sherlock had convinced me to attend events in the place, I had never seen any occupant in that box. And second, the lady sat there alone. While it is unusual for a man to appear in a public place at night without accompaniment, it is not unheard of. For a woman to have come to the opera alone was Irregular, indeed, it was Shocking.

As if the force of my curiosity had caught her attention, the young lady looked around directly at me. Our eyes met. After a moment, she smiled.

That small signal of kindness and acceptance moved me to an unreasonable extent. I believe I would have leaned across the railings separating our boxes and introduced myself, committing any number of faux pas in my eagerness to connect, had she not spoken first. Eyes flickering to my brother's face and back to mine, the young lady's eyes and smile both widened.

"You're Miss Enola Holmes! _The_ Miss Enola Holmes!" she exclaimed.

I was taken aback. Though I may, with some modesty, claim that my work of Perditorian had not been entirely unnoticed by society, I had not ever before been recognized by a person I had never met. I was deeply surprised, and, I will admit, hugely flattered.

"Yes," I said with a calm I did not really feel. "I am. Have we met?" Though I was certain we had not, it was the proper thing to ask. She flushed a deep red.

"Oh, no, we haven't. I'm so sorry, so rude of me to speak without an introduction, but I've heard all about you."

I raised my eyebrows, a smiling growing on my lips as she babbled on. Beside me, I sensed more than saw Sherlock sit up in his chair, filled with curiosity, and perhaps even jealousy. Though doubtless it was through recognizing his famous profile and understanding our relationship that the girl had known my identity, it was still _my name_ the girl had cried out in excitement, not his.

"Indeed, I have followed your exploits most arduously in the newspapers. And my betrothed has spoken of you several times. He researched you thoroughly several years ago, you see. He's here with me this evening – though he has gone to retrieve my coat, since it is so terribly chilly in here –"

_That explains her sitting alone_, I thought to myself.

"He's told me all about how you ran away from home as a girl –"

I was surprised by this knowledge; the fact of my self-imposed disappearance hadn't been a matter of gossip for half a dozen years or more. Who had her betrothed been speaking to?

"—and how you did it to avoid being ruled by the whims of men and society—"

I sat forward at this, my curiosity as to her fiancé's source becoming rather more urgent.

"—and you were kidnapped by cutthroats and killers and you escaped by cutting the ropes with your..." the flow of her ramblings stuttered as she blushed, "With your, um," she glanced at Sherlock, "well, with an, um, article of clothing, and then you went to the police station, right under Mr. Sherlock Holmes' nose, if you'll pardon the expression, sir," she added, looking at Sherlock, whose expression was one of intense curiosity and amusement, "and then you left drawings that led them to the ones who'd kidnapped you and got away before Mr. Sherlock Holmes could see you, if you'll pardon—"

Sherlock waved her words aside with a motion of his long fingered hand and a sly grin directed at me. My mouth had dropped open mid-way through the last jumble of ramblings. Who could possibly know so many details of my life? I was quite certain I had not shared some of the things she'd said with anyone, even my brothers.

"How on earth do you know—?" I began to ask, but just then, a tall young man entered the lady's box and she broke off, jumping and looking around sheepishly.

"Your coat, Amelia—" he said, but came to a halt, both physically and vocally when he saw with whom she'd been speaking.

"_Enol_a?"

I felt as if I'd dropped into a bizarre dream. Blinking, I slowly stood and walked forward until I'd reached the railing separating our boxes, staring at him. It had been nearly ten years since I'd last clapped eyes on the boy... the man standing before me, but, despite the slim moustache, the hardened jaw line and loss of all extraneous baby fat he'd retained at the age of twelve, I recognized him as easily as he'd apparently recognized me.

"Tewky?" I asked in unbelieving tones.

Well. Now I knew where the girl had gotten her information.

**Author's Note: I love reviews. They are fantastic. And very motivational. Just saying. **


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter

The

Second

Tewky – perhaps it had been improper to refer to him by his mother's pet name out loud, but he had been and would always be Tewky to me – appeared torn between exasperation and amusement. "Well, it certainly is you, Miss Holmes," he said after a moment, attempting to frown and failing, "I have not been called by that name in years."

I raised an eyebrow. "Not even by her Grace, the Duchess?"

"Ah. Yes. Let me amend my statement: No one else has called me that in years_ besides_ my mother."

He smiled and I laughed. There was a brief silence and I became abruptly aware of my brother's presence at my elbow. Tewky seemed to notice Sherlock at the same moment.

"Mr Holmes! A pleasure to see you again, sir," he said with a start, reaching over the division to shake my brother's hand. Having opened my mouth to introduce them, I was forced to swallow my words as I recollected that the two had become acquainted on the occasion that I had accompanied the boy to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock clasped Tewky's hand warmly and inclined his head in a shallow bow. "Indeed, the pleasure is mine, Lord Tewksbury."

I felt more than saw Sherlock glance sideways at me as he said this, as if to chide (or tease, often the two were very similar) me for my lack of propriety. A faint heat rose in my cheeks but I refused to be made to feel uncomfortable. Tewksbury and I had a shared history of fear, danger and the sudden loyalty that springs up in such situations. He may be the son of a Duke, but to me he was the shocking boy who'd dared to comment on the colour of my corset, the brave idiot who had been prepared to hold off a villain twice his size with a pen knife, and the naive child with sore feet that I had cleaned and bound myself.

Propriety could take a long walk off a short pier, I thought grumpily. I'd call him what I liked.

I directed a pointed smile at Sherlock, and turned back to Tewky. He was watching me closely, as if he expected me to disappear in a puff of smoke. Having a predisposition to blush easily, I felt my cheeks grow warm under his persistent gaze. All thoughts of how best to continue the conversation drained from my head. Looking about desperately for a source of inspiration, my eyes found his companion's face.

"Oh! We still have yet to be introduced – Amelia, was it?"  
Tewksbury started and looked around at the young lady. "Of course, where are my manners? Miss Holmes, Mister Holmes, this is Miss Amelia Ward. My fiancé." Tewky cleared his throat painfully. "Amelia: Miss Enola Holmes and Mister Sherlock Holmes."

Amelia stepped forward, eyes shining, face pink. "Yes, I know," she said excitedly, and, taking both my hands in hers, held them eagerly. "I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Holmes."

"And I, yours, Miss Ward," I returned politely. The young lady shook her head vigorously, her dark brown curls bouncing around her head.

"Miss Holmes, I would be so honoured if you would – yes, you absolutely must – call me Amelia. I have heard so much of you, I feel as if are the dearest of friends already."

In the face of her effusions and the surprise of meeting Tewksbury again, I had very nearly forgotten the upset of the morning until that moment. As I smiled down into the girl's face, unbidden, my mind dragged forth the image of the last woman I had spoken with that day and placed the two faces side by side. The bitter, disbelieving woman of the morning contrasted grotesquely with the innocent, devoted girl before me. The memory of the former had the effect of cold water splashed in my face. I felt my smile slip and hurriedly hoisted it back into place, lest my enthusiastic new friend should think herself the cause of my sudden gloom.

"Um, yes, that is, I'd be delighted," I stuttered, "and you must – that is to say, if you'd like to call me Enola, I would, um –"

I was saved from the necessity of attempting further speech by the sounds of screeching discordance as the orchestra prepared for the opera to begin. With an apologetic smile that hid my relief, I freed one hand and motioned vaguely at the stage. As almost an afterthought, I said aloud, "The play is about to start, perhaps we can continue this later?"

Amelia nodded and then, after giving the hand still remaining in her grip one last squeeze, she and Tewksbury returned to their seats.

"Well, that was... interesting," Sherlock murmured beside me as we seated ourselves. Fixing my eyes on the stage as a large, square man marched out to thunderous applause, I silently agreed.

At intermission, I was glad to stand and stretch my limbs. Though I take as much pleasure in music as the next person, my enjoyment is not as fervid as that of my brother. The artistic genes our mother passed on manifested very differently in her children. For me, it is a knack for caricature. For Sherlock, it's music, particularly the violin. For Mycroft, my eldest brother, it is an extensive collection of still life paintings.

Sherlock watched me as I wandered over to the barrier between our box and the next. I thought I could make out a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, though the rest of his face was hidden by his steepled hands. Amelia was already at the barrier, all but bouncing on her toes as I approached.

"Miss Holmes," she exclaimed, "I've been unable to think about anything else the whole play – I'm quite lost as to the plot, in fact; I have no idea what's going on – I would be so honoured if you would take tea with me tomorrow. Please say you will!"

I'd been meaning to visit an old friend for tea the next day – Mrs. Tupper, my exceedingly elderly former landlady – but Amelia's eyes, startlingly blue amidst a halo of mahogany hair, were wide and pleading. Her hands gripped mine almost feverishly.

Was this normal behaviour? She seemed a trifle too desperate to me, but then, I had little experience with the type of fanatical follower that I'd taken Amelia to be.

"Please?" she pleaded once more, catching at my hesitation, and this time, I noticed a nervous tick flicker just below her right eye. As something of a professional busy-body, I'll admit, my interest was piqued.

Hoisting a smile onto my face, I gave her fingers a cautious squeeze. "O f course I will, Amelia. Name the time."


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter

the

Third

Having repeatedly reassured Miss Ward – Amelia – that tea the following afternoon was entirely convenient and would in no way disrupt my work, I allowed myself to be swept through the hallways of the opera house on the arm of my devotee, Sherlock and Tewksbury trailing after us. I listened bemusedly as Amelia, never falling silent for more than a moment, launched into a thorough analysis of several of my more dramatic cases, giving her opinion on the villains involved, the methods with which I'd discovered and captured them, et cetera, et cetera.

Glancing back at the gentlemen accompanying us, I was unsurprised to find that Sherlock's amusement had already been corrupted by his usual impatience. He was eyeing the back of Amelia's head with a bored and insufferably superior expression. Tewksbury, slouching along with his hands buried in his pockets – _like a child deprived of his favourite toy_, I reflected, amused – was almost certainly wrinkling his (probably exceedingly expensive) dress suit and obviously didn't care a bit. As I watched, he raised a distracted hand to tug at his stiffly starched collar. Smiling to myself, I turned back to Amelia and pretended interest in whatever she was exclaiming over now, though mentally I was a fourteen year old runaway in widow's clothes once more, crouching over a pile of shredded velvet and satin in a frustrated little boy's secret tree house.

I was experiencing a strange nostalgia – really, who in her right mind misses days spent alone, misunderstood by those she cares for most, unable and unwilling to trust anyone with more or for longer than necessary? But I _was_ fond of those memories, the adventures and growth I'd experienced during that year I'd been on my own – when Amelia tugged sharply at my arm.

"Your wrap, Enola."

I blinked, refocusing on my surroundings. Around us, the theatre going crowd were bunched up before the doors, their collective voices making a low roar of sound. An attendant stood before us, extending my cloak to me.

"Oh, yes, thank you," I said, hurriedly accepting the cloak and pulling it over my shoulders in an attempt to deflect attention from my momentary lapse of attention. As soon as I'd finished, Amelia reattached herself to my side. I waited for her to drag me away once more, but in the face of the crowd, she showed ladylike hesitancy to lead out. Our escorts seemed content to stand about and wait, but I'd had a long and trying day and I was more than ready to leave behind the polite chatter, expensive clothes and clean faces that pressed in on me from every side. Straightening up to my full – and, I hoped for the moment, rather intimidating – height, I moved into the crowd, Amelia bobbing in my wake and the gentlemen trailing after.

At last, after begging my pardon from one end of the room to the other, we emerged into the brisk night air. A light rain had begun sometime while we had been inside. Closing my eyes for a moment, I breathed in the damp air with its bouquet of unsavoury London scents. I hadn't realized that I'd been holding my breath as we'd navigated the crowd. Amelia had begun to chatter at my side once more, returning to the subject of the opera, the plot of which had apparently left her in need of extensive clarification.

"Cabbie!"

I looked around as one of the many cabs on the block – circling the opera like birds of prey over a fresh kill – jammed itself into the free space on the road before us. Tewksbury stepped forward.

"Well, Miss Holmes, Mister Holmes, it has been wonderful seeing you both again, but I'm afraid I must to return Miss Ward to her parents before they suspect us of elopement. "

Amelia's face turned bright pink and she threw a hand over her mouth as it let out an involuntary gasp. It seemed Tewky had not lost his knack for saying shocking things. Glancing at his face, I thought I saw a glimmer of satisfaction at her reaction before he'd smoothed his expression to one of polite attention. He extended a hand to assist her into the cab.

"My dear?"

Amelia had already begun to reach for her hand when she whirled and took both my hands in hers. "Tomorrow," she breathed, her eyes shining. "Promise me, you'll come?"

I raised my eye brows. "Of course. I've already given you my word, Amelia, I will be there."

Amelia nodded, her face flushing once more. She turned to the cab once more, hesitated, gave my hands a quick squeeze, then disappeared into the cab's depths. I expected Tewksbury to follow immediately, but he showed no sign of wanting to leave. He stood, fidgeting with his gloves. Beside him, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Good evening, Lord Tewksbury."

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

The two exchanged nods and Sherlock strolled away to hail a cab of our own, leaving Tewksbury and I alone in silence that was slowly growing uncomfortable.

I had just opened my mouth to follow my brother's example in bidding Tewky good evening, when he abruptly broke into speech, eyes on the pavement beneath our feet.

"It has been – that is, I've hoped for a long time now that we would meet again. I wanted to thank you properly. For finding me, that is, and helping me escape those ruffians those many years ago. I was a frustrated, naive little boy and... had you not happened along when you did, I might have lost my life during that ridiculous escapade. And I kept saying _you_ were the idiot."

He laughed uncomfortably before straightening up and meeting my gaze. It took me a moment of stammering to come up with a reply. I had not expected any such statement from him, and, in any case, despite years of helping others, I'd never really learned how to properly accept thanks. So, of course, I just gabbled the first thing my convoluted mind produced.

"Well, it was mostly dumb luck, you know. I was on my own ridiculous escapade at the time. Running from home, on a bicycle. I happened onto your 'disappearance' purely by chance." I shrugged. "Had our circumstances not been so similar, we might never have met."

He nodded and looked at the pavement again, burying his hands in his pockets once more. After a moment he shook his head, a grim smile flickering over his face. "You never said you were the one to tell Mother about my hiding place, though. That was unkind of you. She wouldn't let me near the garden for a month. When I finally got outside on my own, my tree had been completely uprooted. Mother swore it fell in a storm, but none of the other trees had lost even a branch. Took me a good while to find another spot—"

"Tewksbury?"

We both turned. Amelia's dark head was poking out of the open cab door, her expression impatient.

"Oh, yes, sorry. I'm coming, my dear, one moment," Tewksbury said, raising his hands self consciously. Turning back to me, there was a spot of colour high on each of his cheekbones. "Well, I really must go, Miss Holmes. It was... amazing running into you again. I – well, good evening."

He bowed shortly, I bobbed a half curtsey, then he was gone.


End file.
